Scourge
by TWong
Summary: Two months after the end of the One Year War, a lone Zeon remnant pilot finally gets a chance to link up with others of his kind and return to fight the good fight.


Two months.

Two months since they ended the war. Two months since the Feds raided Nha Trang base. Two months since I left the scene in disgrace.

I stoke the fire.

Two months of crappy rations and the puny little fish they have around here. Of stealing from the nearest villages in the cover of darkness. Of driving a Zaku around in enemy territory with only a quarter-drum of ammo. But you know what? I came down here to fight for my family's freedom, and by Zabi's bald head I'll have it.

I just need to figure out how.

I hear a whining noise. Not a passenger jet, not unless it's flying a hundred feet off the ground. It could only be…

I look to the source. A _Gau_. Even against the stars in this light-forsaken place, it's easy to see. A fucking _Gau_, twenty klicks away, descending from five thousand. A God-damned _Gau. _Holy shit.

I need to make contact. I forget all about the fire, all about the fish that's already burning on its stick, and scramble to my Zaku's ascension cable.

"Scourge" isn't in the best of shape. I mean, just before we lost Nha Trang, it was sporting a Feddie GM's arm and hand (some huge technological feat from what I hear), and about 20 of it came off one of the 501st team's units. It's got that distinctive blue-grey that actually sets off pretty nice with the green. And there are some scratchbuilt components, but it still works for the most part. Before I got my ass out of Nha Trang those fuckers fused the left knee and burned half the armor off that side with those God-damned beam rifles.

I get hauled up to the cockpit, key in my access code, get in, and turn my radio on. It's already live with traffic.

"…dash-One-One-Three-Eight calling all Principality forces in the area for immediate withdrawal. Repeat…"

Broadcasting in the clear. We must be really desperate.

I put on my headset and seal off the cockpit.

"Eleven Thirty-Eight, this is Zaku Four-Oh-Five-dash-Six Corona. I am nineteen klicks south-southeast of your position, over."

"Roger, Corona Six. Come on in, the water's fine."

I reach over my left shoulder and give the good old handle a tug to get the reactor started. Everything comes up nominal as can me, then I get the warning about damage to the leg and all that other crap that sets off those fucking alarms. Yeah, whatever. Override it all. Set the cameras to low-light vision and use the arm to rip off the camo tarp. Once that's out of the way I throttle up. A thump with the right leg, then the whole damn thing lurches and whines as the left leg takes a step. Regular step with the right. Lurch again with the left. It's been such a motherfucking pain these past two months.

"Corona Six inbound, ETA four-zero minutes."

"Roger, Six."

Twenty minutes later, the fucking leg snags on fucking tree. I back it up and go around when I hear the booms.

I stop and use the camera to zoom in a little. Sure enough, explosions going off all around the _Gau_. Fuck. Then I hear the distress call. Shit I can do about it, I got twenty-two rounds and I'm way out of range. I can jump, but there's no good that will do me without the momentum I can get out of two working legs. Best I can do is keep going.

Two minutes later, the booms stop and the _Gau_ reports all clear, but they lost a few guys. I can see it now in all its ugly goodness. About fifteen minutes more and I'm home free, or as close as I can get. They just zoom on by, and now I'm standing in the lights illuminating the landing zone. One hundred fucking meters. The ramp lowers.

What the _fuck_?

It's not one of those GM Ground Types that I blew to hell and back two months ago. It's one of those space versions, you can tell by all the curves. But he's wearing camo and packing all the equipment I saw on the local Feds, so he's still business. But he's carrying a K175C. One of _our_ K175Cs. Salvage?

He brings up the Magella gun level with his chest. And now I see some white lettering on the shields that reads "E. F. MARINES." Definitely not one of my boys.

I turn the Zaku and bring the gun up, but the fucking _leg!_ A hundred seventy-five millimeters of pure irony hits the left shoulder, blowing the arm clean off, and I ride five stories of metal to the ground.

I hate when this fucking happens. It's like a mini concussion every time. I just squeeze the trigger and hope to God I hit something important. As I do that I switch to one of the cams that looks at "Scourge's" feet so I can see the motherfucker.

I fucking missed. I even missed the fucking _Gau_. And now I'm out of ammo.

I can't stand. The right arm is being jammed by something, probably dirt. The GM takes a few steps off the ramp. I see it clearly in the _Gau_'s landing lights now. It's one of those GM Commands, the ones that fucked up our boys at Side 6 the other week (I keep up on the news when I can, even if I don't know a fucking word of Vietnamese). If it weren't about to shoot the fuck out of me, I'd say it was a pretty thing.

He levels the Magella gun at minimum range right at my cockpit hatch. Shit.

"Aaaaand that's number five. Good going, Sarge."

He adopted an accent to quote an old, old, film: "YOU AH TERMINATID!"

"Satellites picked up three more moving together, ten klicks east. They're the last ones in the area. How do you want to go about it, sir?"

"We'll go to them for a change. Two and Three, if you would please join me. If anything unexpected happens, just lift, we'll work out a rendezvous later."

"Roger that, lead. Good hunting."

Two GM Command Ground Types, identical to his but for the Federation-issue weapons they carried, clomped off the captured _Gau_ one after the other.

"Zeke Killers on me. Let's get 'em, boys."


End file.
